CHRISTMAS JOY

My brother, Joe, has been seeing this woman for four months now and
she's really getting to be a pain in the neck. She called last week to
see what she could bring to my Christmas Eve party.

"Hi, it's Sue. We want to bring something - should we bring a turkey?"
A turkey? What the fuck. Bring two. What a dimwit. Most people bring an
hors d'oeuvre. She wants to bring a frigging turkey! I could picture
her blonde bangs bouncing as we spoke

I say, "No, that's okay, I'm all set on the main course. Just bring a
snack, a side dish, something like that."

"We'll be there early to help you get ready." Oh joy. Her idea of help
is to stand around rubbing against my brother.

Joe left his wife of 25 years a week after meeting this, this . . .
creature. The guys in his shop said she was a ten. A ten what? IQ?
You've got to be kidding. She's a blonde bimbo who assures us she is of
genius ilk by throwing around words like "bifurcation." Yeah, well
bifurcate you.

One semester short of a law degree is her story. Truth is, she didn't
finish because she can't join the bar because she's been convicted of
assault - on her last boyfriend who got pissed because she pissed on
his office rug - at the law firm. You guessed it; she's a nut
case.

She's got all sorts of ideas of how to ruin - did I say ruin, I meant
run - Joe's construction business. Wants him to double his shop space
and lease a high-end retail store for furniture she plans to
design.

He's got his own place now, fully furnished in fancy, schmancy western
furniture and Mexican rugs. They're together constantly - she is
histrionic, always overreacting - everything's a crisis with this
chick. Once he dumped her. Couldn't stand the hysteria. She called me
sobbing. What could I say? Good riddance. Goodbye, so long, farewell,
vaya con Dios? But no such luck. They're back together in two
weeks.

Now he's wearing western duds himself - cowboy shirts with pearl snap
buttons and heavy starch. He creases his blue jean and wears two
hundred dollar cowboy hats. This from the guy who five years ago spent
an entire weekend at the beach in his work boots, jeans and a dirty,
white, nylon old man's shirt with a Dago-T underneath. He loves country
music now. A year ago he discovered the Rolling Stones. Now he's
cool.

He told her he'd been to Viet Nam and was a POW where they slit his
nipples off with a razor blade but when he was released, he got them
sewed back on. She believed him. Hello? He kept the nipples tucked in
his cheek like tobacco the whole time? She related this story to me,
and I broke the sad news that he'd never been to Viet Nam. She spent
the rest of the evening pinching his nipples and making him
scream.

She's also got her kids for Christmas - yeah, she's one of those women
who lost custody of her kids. This alone should have raised a red flag.
Her doctor husband who she supported through med school ran away with
his assistant. What a surprise. He's got custody of the kids - a boy
and girl, 10 and 8 - Davie and Dodie. Sue's broke, so Joe buys their
Christmas gifts and they all show up, arms loaded. They dump their
suitcase on the living room floor for convenience - never mind that I'm
having 25 guests. We're all dressed up and she's wearing Wrangler's so
tight every crevice she's got is on display.

Her hors d'oeuvre is popcorn balls - which she hasn't made yet. "I need
your popcorn popper, some corn oil, corn syrup and vinegar. Oh, and
have you got a big bowl?" It's an hour before the guests arrive. I'm
busy setting up the bar - she's making a gigantic mess. But she's here
to help. I wash all her dishes and put them away. She announces firmly,
"I need to make another batch of popcorn." I snarl, "I'm not in the
mood for another batch of popcorn. Make do." I throw her a scathing
look, and Joe laughs to break the tension. She spills the coffee
pot.

"Isn't she a goofy little thing?" he asks, kissing her adoringly. Yeah,
she's great. She should have brought a turkey. Soon, we're told she's
got a bad cold. They mingle a little, Joe picking over the food. He no
longer touches fat of any kind. He used to yell, "Gimme another piece
of that pee-can pie!" Now he won't touch avocados. By nine o'clock, I
can't find them. This is strange. Our house isn't that big.

Meanwhile, her kids have opened their gifts and Dodie is rollerblading
in a circle through all of the rooms of our house careening around
guests nibbling popcorn balls. The boy is taking aim with his BB gun at
anything that moves. Where the hell is she? I hear a loud knocking and
peer around the corner to see a guest wrestling with the door of the
guest room where the coats are stored. They're in bed together under
the coats. I could kill them. I hit the door with my shoulder and yell
loudly, "People need their coats!"

"Oh, sorry, Sue isn't feeling too good." Too bad. Take her the hell
home, then. He comes out meekly.

"Do you think you could make sure her kids get to bed?"

I give him a "you must be kidding" look.

"No problem," I sneer.

They're still terrorizing the guests so I guess they're not ready for
bed yet. About ten o'clock, she comes out to get her nightgown, which
is in her suitcase in the living room. Thank God. I was hoping she
wouldn't sleep in her "ropers." She relents and takes Dodie upstairs to
bed. One down, one to go.

At midnight, we're finally alone - except for the nine people staying
over. I stagger upstairs. Her kids are in the bunks in the other
bedroom. I stick my head in to see if they're still alive.

Dodie says, "Can you get me something to sleep in?"

She climbs out of bed stark naked. I guess her mother must have told
her to undress and she'd be right back with her pajamas. She probably
forgot all about her eight-year-old daughter on Christmas Eve. Oh, but
I forgot - she's sick. She's sick, all right. I half collapse, half
pass out. It's been a long day.

Morning comes. Christmas morning, mind you. Dodie runs downstairs in my
flannel nightgown and begins digging through the few gifts still under
the tree, pitching one after another aside. None for her. She turns
sadly to me, her face drooping.

"Santa didn't come."

Her devoted mother is still in bed. I knock on the door.

"Yeah?"

"Dodie is wondering where her gifts from Santa are."

Silence. Oh shit, they're thinking. They were so busy getting it on
that they forgot all about Santa. They roll out of the rack; she leaves
her underpants in the foot of the bed, which I find when I change the
linen. Thanks. Better than the first "overnighter", though. That time
she swooned so loud during their love fest that she woke an entire
household full of drunks who'd only gone to bed two hours before. I
thought it was my cat screaming, but it was another kind of kitty. He
told me later that she goes into a "zone" when she has an orgasm and
loses track of what's going on around her. Oh yeah, that could happen.
I ask my mother if she ever went into a zone.

She says drolly, "No, but I wish I could have."

Joe finds a scrap of paper and writes a bogus note from Santa and
pretends to find it.

"Oh, gosh, look here. A note from Santa."

He gives it to Dodie who examines it skeptically while Davie keeps
saying, "That looks like Joe's writing, doesn't Mom? I think Joe wrote
that." So much for Santa.

I make breakfast for eleven and clean up the rest of last night's mess.
She saunters in when the work's done. I make lunch. Leftovers. That's
it - pick through 'em. That's all you're getting. I don't make dinner.
Screw 'em. They order pizza, but not quite enough for everybody. I haul
out the remaining leftovers.

They decide to stay another night. How thoughtful The lovebirds decide
to play pinochle and rope me into playing with them. The first hand
goes badly so she counts the cards. Oops. One's missing.

"These are worthless," she announces and pitches them in the
trash.

Thanks. The missing card is in the drawer. She pinches his nipple
again. He screams. Her kids are back at it, round and round and round.
She loves them so. Wants to get custody. Dodie skates over the cat's
tail who leaps onto the coffee table and knocks over the bowl of chips.
That's okay, I'll get it. Lovely guests.

By nine o'clock, the other guests have managed to escape. Gratefully, I
announce I'm going to bed early.

"Merry Christmas," they all shout.

Yeah, same to you, but more so.